To The Ends of the Earth
by LittleTantrum
Summary: Lady Grantham can't seem to get over the loss of O'Brien but when she finds out her former maid has been stranded in India she decides she must find her and get her back. Starts out pretty K but the rating will go up to M in Ch. 2, 4 and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

Teasing another snarl of thread from the back of her needlework, Cora scowled and turned the embroidery hoop upright again to examine her progress thus far. She had made very little. Only a branch and the tail of one bird were cross-stitched and the outline of what would eventually be two cardinals was woefully uneven. Her stitches were not as smooth as the ones to which she had once been accustomed. Maybe she would pull out the threads and try again. She sighed. The Countess was already growing weary of this piece and there was so much left to do. Her delicately plucked eyebrows furrowed as she thumbed her shabby outline.

O'Brien had always taken care of the outlines for her. Baxter was an efficient enough maid but most of her stitching was done on that machine and her hand-sewing was nothing exceptional - not like O'Brien's. Cora let out another sigh and picked at the irritating threads with her nail. The outline was not the real trouble here. Cora simply didn't have the patience for such tedium. She never really had. In another time, the Countess would stitch as much as she had done now and then hand the composition off to O'Brien for "touching up." O'Brien would take care of all but the beaks or the eyes or some other small part then hand the hoop back to Cora to finish and claim as her own. Ninety percent of the embroidery she had passed along to family and friends at Christmas, and for which she had received so many glowing compliments, was the work of her maid. Yet, O'Brien never complained and _never_ betrayed her secret. Cora could not trust Baxter so assuredly. A deep sense of nostalgia began to rise in Cora's chest. Maybe if she had given O'Brien the credit she deserved she would never have- Cora quickly laid the hoop beside her on the sofa and with a shake of her head pushed the old memories from her mind.

The Countess had grown bored with cross-stitching anyway. She was growing bored with everything these days. Her hours seemed awash with needlework, and bridge, and morning constitutionals, and afternoon teas and it all felt so tedious. Cora glanced around the room for anything to amuse herself. Her niece sat across from her quietly flipping through the pages of Vogue. The fire crackled behind the fender. The clock ticked and tocked above the mantel. The rain pattered against the windows. She looked to her husband sitting in the chair by his desk, a newspaper obscuring his face. Cora frowned. He really was getting more pudgy about the middle. Not that she cared. Even Robert held very little of her interest lately, and she very little of his for that matter. They rarely slept in the same room anymore and he was constantly slipping off to London for the night or a few days. Maybe he had taken a mistress. Cora found she didn't even mind if it meant he would not be bothering her, _and so long as he remained discrete._ The Countess concealed a yawn behind her delicate hand and returned her attention to Rose.

"So, dear, have you had any news of your parents' journey so far? They haven't arrived in Scotland yet, have they?" It seemed the Marquis and Marchioness of Flintshire found themselves unable to endure India for more than a year after Shrimpy's sudden transfer from Bombay to Calcutta. Robert's cousin had clearly committed some transgression to warrant such a swift and obviously punitive reassignment but Cora, in deference, never questioned her niece on the subject.

Looking up from her magazine, Rose opened her mouth to answer but was interrupted by her uncle. Robert called from across the room, "Oh that's right I haven't told you. I've just had a letter from Shrimpy and, wouldn't you know it, he says O'Brien's gone and jumped ship again."

Cora winced at that name on her husband's lips but her interest was piqued. She returned her attention to him - though he hadn't bothered to lower his paper.

"He says less than a week before they set sail last month she quit without notice, to stay behind in India."

"To stay in India? By herself?" Cora's eyes were wide, the bridge of her nose crumpled in disbelief.

"No that's not what happened at all," Rose chimed in distractedly, "That's just what Mummy told Daddy so he wouldn't be cross with her."

Robert turned down the corner of his paper to look at his niece. Cora watched impatiently as Rose continued thumbing through her magazine. "it's just like her," the girl continued, "always lying when it suits her. She did the same thing with Nanny Weaver when I-"

"Rose," Cora said gently, hoping to redirect her niece from another angst-filled lamentation on the tired subject of Susan Flintshire's slipshod mothering techniques.

Finally looking up, Rose blushed to see all the attention in the room settled on her. She proceeded with enthusiasm, "Oh, since Mummy refused to take on an Indian servant like Daddy did and since they had already paid for passage twice for Miss Wilkens and another time for Miss O'Brien, Daddy said Mummy would have to provide for Miss O'Brien's passage back with funds from her dress allowance."

"So, Mummy - in her usual selfish fashion - told Miss O'Brien she would have to provide for her own passage. And- well- I don't think Miss O'Brien had the money because she quit right then and there without giving a week's notice."

"Isn't that typical." Robert smirked.

"Surely you don't think Susan's behavior appropriate," Cora scoffed.

"A bit uncharitable maybe but-" he searched for an excuse, "and I don't know why you're so concerned for O'Brien. It's not as if she's earned such loyalty, running out on you like a thief in the night."

Cora pursed her lips. Her husband's words stung. Crossing her arms, she said, "I just don't think it's right, leaving your maid behind in a foreign country like that."

"Darling, don't fret, it _is_ crafty O'Brien after all. She probably had herself installed as someone else's duplicitous lady's maid the very next day." With this, Robert turned up the corner of his newspaper and absorbed himself in the stock exchange once more.

His suggestion had relieved some of Cora's concern until she noticed her niece biting her lip uneasily and avoiding eye-contact. "Rose, is there something else?"

Rose's brow creased with apprehension, "well-" she hesitated then continued almost inaudibly, "Mummy said she refused to write Miss O'Brien a reference and she said she was going to tell all of the other lady's she knew not to take her on."

Cora was aghast, "Why on earth- How could your mother be so cruel?"

"I suppose Miss O'Brien was very angry when she quit because she called Mummy horrid names." Rose's tone was mournful but a grin appeared faintly on her lips, "She told Mummy she was a tight-fisted harpy, and she called her a bitter shrew, and a miserable old b-" Rose stopped herself and blushed remembering her uncle's presence in the room.

"Hah! Said the pot to the kettle! The ill-mannered woman," Robert grumbled from behind his paper, "So typical."

"O'Brien was not ill-mannered. And she never once insulted me. She must have been very upset." Cora had tried to keep her tone stoic in the presence of her family but she was becoming unmistakably dismayed.

Robert finally lowered his newspaper again, squinting at his wife, "I don't understand you."

"It just-" noticing her husband's bemused expression Cora rose to her feet, "It just isn't right!" she said, "and now O'Brien is stranded and alone on the streets of Calcutta!" Tossing her needlework to the ground, Cora turned on her niece now, "and you should have told me!" With that, the countess stormed out of the room. Robert's mouth hung agape in bewilderment. Rose pouted quietly to herself.

* * *

Waking to a dark room at exactly 4:30 like she always did, apparently whether there was work to be done or not, Sarah stretched beneath her blankets. She waited in the predawn silence until she could hear the rumble of cart wheels on the stone street below, the prying open of wooden crates, the unfurling of canvas tents. She quickly snatched up her fags and matches from the top of the trunk beside her bed and seated herself on the perfectly positioned single wooden chair in her 2m by 2m square hotel room. The yellowing walls were cracked and pockmarked with age. The bare hardwood floors were in desperate need of a waxing, and by the door there was a scorch mark of unknown origin. Sarah could conceal the black spot with the prayer rug she had purchased in her recent travels but using the thing as doormat seemed a bit irreverent even if she wasn't an Islamist. The room also contained a small table to accompany the chair, a creaking single bed, and one electric lamp. What the suite lacked in amenities, however, it more than made up for in another way.

With her elbow on the window-sill, Sarah leaned forward into the cool morning air and lit a cigarette. The show was about to start. The city was still steeped in shadows but she could hear merchants below speaking what she recognized as Tamil, as well as some other languages she couldn't place. Now her nose told her the spice sellers must be opening their sacks and barrels and the flower merchants must be laying out their garlands of marigolds. That's how it always happened, the sounds came first, then the smells, and then- Sarah gazed across the Bangalore skyline. Indigo and fuschia began gradually seeping up from the horizon into the black ocean of stars. Soon, the darkness was being driven back into hiding by reds and oranges and yellows that made the city itself look as if it were being set aflame. Finally, Sarah could see a burning spark of sun peeking up from behind the silhouette of towering mosques and Hindu temples in the distance. As the Bengaluru Pete flooded with light, stalls exploded into colour on all sides. Sarah's eyes lingered on the textile merchants across the way. Their vibrant and extravagantly embroidered fabrics were like nothing she had ever seen.

Thinking back to the first night she had stayed in this hotel room, after choosing whichever train could take her the furthest from Calcutta in one day, Sarah remembered her exhaustion that night and her disappointment in the quality of her lodgings. Unable to sleep with the anxiety over her rash decision to stay behind, she had sat all night in this chair by the window, smoking and wallowing in self-pity and regret until dawn. Her thoughts had even skirted the topic of ending it all, when the sun rose up at last, illuminating the city below. It was as if the sunrise pushed the darkness from Sarah's mind as well. In the light of day she finally grasped the true freedom of her situation. She could go anywhere she liked, see anything she liked, wear anything she liked, eat anything she liked. Suddenly the tumultuous maelstrom of her soul settled itself. She was free.

Sarah had been traveling and sightseeing for three weeks since that morning and now returned for a night or two of rest. Mr. Ramachandra had agreed to store her trunk for her while she was away. She liked Ramachandra, he saved this room for her as well. The concierge had assured her he had larger rooms of much higher quality available, this room was meant for hotel staff and she was originally only lodged here due to the late hour of her arrival and the unavailability of any proper guest rooms, but she insisted this one was adequate. Though she wasn't sure she believed in any omniscient fate-maker, landing in this exact spot after her harrowing flight from the Flintshires, after sleepless nights plagued by dangerous thoughts, and seeing the view she was enjoying at this moment might be what faithful people call divine providence. She would not trifle with that.

The fruit sellers were setting out their mangos and pomegranates now. Sarah would have to dress herself soon and go down for some breakfast. Comfortable in her cotton nightdress she did not relish the idea of returning to the heavy, heat absorbing black linen which hung over the bedpost. She really should take some time from her traveling and sew herself something lighter. Surveying her old maid's frock from her seat across the room prompted memories of a conversation with Sarah's recently former mistress.

She had carefully broached the subject, with Lady Flintshire, of altering her uniform; a subject, by the way, which would not even have needed discussing with Lady Grantham. Sarah had only two frocks, one heavy black linen and one wool, both perfectly suited for a cool damp Yorkshire climate but neither appropriate for the oppressive heat of Calcutta. Her current costume was stifling. The rest of the Indian staff wore white cotton. Her Ladyship scoffed and Sarah knew that that last justification had been her fatal error. The suffocating heat had compromised her ordinarily unassailable faculties of persuasion.

"Stifling? Stifling?" Lady Flintshire derided, "Are you stifled, O'Brien? You appear to be breathing satisfactorily? Or were you hoping to go native as well?" The marchioness had been vexed for days since she found out his Lordship had taken up smoking a hookah and wearing sandals like the locals.

"No m'Lady." Sarah looked down at her clasped hands, "Only I thought maybe I could try a lighter material-"

"_Only_? It is a very slippery slope."

Sarah's jaw clenched but she willed herself to relax it before Lady Flintshire could notice hints of insolence in her expression.

"O'Brien I do sympathize."

She didn't.

"And I would so like to be lenient in this case."

She wouldn't.

"But, my dear, you must understand."

_My dear_, the condescending cow.

"As your mistress it is my responsibility to guard us both against the dangers of hybridity and assimilation in this godless land."

Christ, the woman was an imbecile. It was easy enough for her to preach self-sacrifice with her wardrobe full of flowing white silk.

"Don't you agree, O'Brien?"

Sarah gritted her teeth. This was the most galling thing about working for Lady Flintshire, a "yes, m'Lady" was never enough, her mistress always insisted on a full verbal submission. Sarah would be compelled to parrot back the woman's idiotic ideas and claim them as her own. "Of course, m'Lady, we must take care to-" Sarah seethed but she forced her tone to remain compliant, "-we must take care to preserve our English civility."

The marchioness smiled at her servant's submission and the subject was closed.

Sarah turned away from the hanging black frock, away from the bitter memories and back to the kaleidoscopic view of the Bangalore marketplace. She took another drag from her cigarette and snuffed it on the sill, wishing it was a Black Cat, her brand, but they couldn't be found here. Everyone back in England thought she manipulated Lady Grantham but she never had. They didn't give the Countess the credit she deserved. Like any intelligent woman she could be persuaded by a well-reasoned suggestion. Not Lady Flintshire though, she had been too stupid even for manipulation. Sarah twisted her lip in disgust then relaxed. Her thoughts drifted back to Downton again. She leaned forward resting her chin on her palm. With the time difference it would be late evening there. And Lady Grantham? Lady Grantham's daily schedule was still etched in Sarah's brain. She would be dressing for bed now. Someone else would be just tying up the braid in her hair and, with an ever gentle smile, her Ladyship would thank the new maid's reflection in her mirror. Sarah sighed and pulled another cigarette from the box.


	2. Chapter 2

Having finished Lady Grantham's braid, Baxter stood shifting on her feet waiting to be dismissed. Her Ladyship continued gazing into the mirror but appeared not to see herself - or anyone else in the room. A nearly imperceptible expression of concern creased her brow.

"Will that be all, m'Lady?" Baxter finally ventured.

Roused from her trance, the Countess acknowledged her maid for the first time in several minutes. "Oh. Yes, you may go," she said waving the servant off with flick of her hand. Her daughters observed their mother curiously. Mary lounged in a chair, filing her nails. Edith sat on the bed, shoulder against a bedpost. The Countess did not watch her current maid leave the room. Silently she sat, searching her mirror for something that was not there. She missed the soft but firm hands of her previous maid. Hands that, each night, would tie off her hair, then gently press her shoulders to indicate she was set for bed. O'Brien making intentional physical contact with her had been so rare that Cora could almost remember each instance. Of course the maid had to touch Cora when dressing her or sewing her into a gown, but always so lightly, so briefly, only as much as was absolutely necessary, as if the Countess were a delicate porcelain figurine or a red hot kettle. Occasionally she would lay her hand over Cora's for the briefest moment when Cora handed her a brush or pin. There was the time she had tripped on her train and O'Brien had suddenly appeared, catching her around the waist, lifting her back to her feet. When Cora righted herself O'Brien had such an expression of discomfort and embarrassment that Cora blushed and could hardly manage to thank her. They immediately parted ways in the hall and never spoke of the incident again. Edith told Cora how O'Brien braved the Spanish Flu for her, sponged her brow, wiped her nose, held her hand, _held her hand_, would not leave her side all night. But she had almost no memory of her illness. To Cora, O'Brien was singularly professional and forever guarded.

The Countess respected her maid but she had longed for more. She envied the intimacy between Mary and Anna. There had been moments when she felt like embracing O'Brien the way Mary might hug Anna, but O'Brien certainly was not Anna and Cora feared she would only embarrass the woman again. Then Sybil died. Cora saw her eyes beginning to glisten in the mirror. She had stayed in bed for days, in the dark, curtains drawn. O'Brien came in to check on her, asked if there was anything Cora needed, anything she could do. There wasn't. After nearly two days without eating O'Brien had sat on the bed next to her, so close, closer than ever, coaxing her to at least have some tea. Cora did not need tea, she did not need her shoulder pressed, she did not need her hand squeezed, she needed to be held while she wept, while she wept so hard her entire body might shake apart, she needed to be held together. O'Brien did not touch her. Maybe that was the beginning of the end. She had resented O'Brien for that moment. She knew that her maid had been very concerned and likely hadn't any idea what to do for her. No one had. And still she resented O'Brien's reticence more than anyone else's. It was completely unfair. What she wanted would have been entirely too familiar and unprofessional. She knew that, but a coldness grew between them. Cora wished she could go back, wished she could fix things, but it was too late.

"Mama, are you alright? You've been quiet this evening," Edith asked.

"Yes you were rather cold to Baxter. Has she done something?" Mary asked.

"What? No, Baxter is fine," Cora said absently, continuing to stare at her reflection.

"Well, Rose is very remorseful for whatever it is she thinks she's done to displease you." Mary said.

Cora finally turned to face her daughters. "Rose hasn't done anything. It's her mother who ought to be feeling remorseful, though I'm sure she isn't."

"I just can't believe she would desert her maid," she shook her head, frowning, "How on earth is O'Brien supposed to get home? She could be starving in a gutter as we speak."

"Oh, Mama, really I don't understand how you can worry yourself this way over a servant who proved herself so unfaithful," Mary said.

"She was with me for nearly twenty years. How would you feel if it was Anna?"

"Anna would never steal away in the night without a word," Mary said.

"Well I never thought O'Brien would- It doesn't matter," Cora turned back to her dressing table.

"I'm sure she's been able to find other work," said Mary, trying to comfort her increasingly despondent mother.

"Without a reference?" Cora spat.

"Maybe she's found a husband," Edith suggested.

Mary snorted.

Cora looked at Edith incredulously. She said nothing at first, then turned, speaking to no one in particular, "I was always of the impression that O'Brien isn't the kind to be very interested in men."

"Most career women aren't. But she doesn't have a career now so-" Edith pursued.

"No," Cora said, returning her attention to Edith, "I think her interests lie elsewhere," she paused, tilting her head forward, willing her middle daughter to grasp her meaning, "in the other direction," she clarified further.

"_Really?_" Mary raised an eyebrow, "And that never bothered you?"

"Barrow was your father's valet for years and nobody minded," Cora said.

"Wait, Mr Barrow is-?" Edith tried to catch up with the unspoken conversation.

Mary rolled her eyes at her befuddled sister.

"And besides," Cora continued, "it's not as if she was the first one I'd ever seen. I went to school with Gertrude Vanderbilt and everyone knows she's a -. And of course you know your grandmother has always been eccentric. Several of her New York society friends were _that way_. She says Helen Astor is one. I hear Nora Carnegie has recently become a racing car enthusiast. And your grandmother's interior decorator, Elsie de Wolfe, has lived for decades with a woman everyone calls her wife. It's nothing so shocking to me. They were all pleasant enough women. "

Her daughters were speechless. Mary had stopped filing. Finally she asked warily, "And is grandmama-?"

Cora laughed, "Oh, no not-" she paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. She was quiet for several seconds, then abruptly she concluded, "No, I'm fairly certain she's not. Most likely not."

"At any rate, I say, why concern oneself in the private affairs of others. O'Brien's preferences were none of my business. She was an impeccable lady's maid and I can't help but worry what's become-"

"What do racing cars have to do with anything?" Edith interrupted, furrowing her brows, "I find racing cars exciting. That doesn't mean I'm-"

Mary shot a knowing smirk at her spinster sister.

"Oh do shut up," Edith squinted back.

The girls embarked on another round of endless bickering and Cora continued her thought quietly to herself. O'Brien had been such an attentive lady's maid so her absconding in the night truly was a shock. Cora never could have imagined it. She had never thought O'Brien would leave her because she had been sure O'Brien was... was what? Was - despite the aloof exterior, was - in love with her? The countess choked with the sudden realization of what she had always thought but never acknowledged to herself. God! She had been such a ridiculous fool, flattering herself that the occasional warm attentions of a paid employee were anything but professional courtesies. She had taken O'Brien's affinity for her as a given, selfishly, knowing she couldn't possibly return such affections. Could she? And in the end, the joke was on her, the affinity was all in her mind. O'Brien's departure hadn't disappointed her because of the betrayal. It had only been a blow to her ludicrous conceit. Cora's cheeks flushed with shame.

And yet, she had been so sure - the way O'Brien had looked at her sometimes- hadn't there been something- She felt sick with herself, reading into every expression, every minute incident of physical affection, pathetic. She wished her daughters would leave her alone. She wished she _could_ stop worrying herself over an unfaithful maid; especially one whose concern for her was only ever a fiction the Countess had invented to augment her vanity. But Cora couldn't shake the nagging uncertainty. What _had_ become of O'Brien? She returned her gaze to her mirror. She had little interest in her own reflection, she only stared at the empty space behind her.

* * *

Entering the Bull and Castle Sarah's senses were flooded with the familiar must of stale beer, pint glasses clinking, and soft light reflecting off dark wood paneling. The place really was, as Mr. Fitch had said, just like home. Looking around, she could hardly believe she was in India and not England. She never had been much for public houses but the solitude of her travels was wearing on her. Working in service, a maid could scarcely find a minute to herself except to sneak a fag outside. Now there was no one telling her what to do, no one telling her where to be, no maids sniggering at her wisecracks, no footmen dancing in the servants hall, no conversations worth eavesdropping. The transition to independence had been more grinding than she expected.

Sarah took a seat at the bar. Mr. Fitch was raised in Bombay. On the day she told him she would be staying in India rather than returning with the Flintshires, he suggested if she ever made it over to Bombay herself she should be sure to visit the old Bull and Castle. She had liked Fitch. He was waggish and cheeky and she supposed some would say handsome. Thomas would. And Mr. Fitch would have liked Thomas as well. What had become of old Fitch, she wondered. Most likely driving for some other British family in Calcutta. Her thoughts were interrupted by the barmaid.

Too hot for a heavy pint, Sarah requested a Jameson - neat - drinks were always served neat here. While she waited for her drink she took another look around. Something didn't square but Sarah reckoned it was because the place looked like a Yorkshire pub torn up by the roots and dropped smack in the heart of India. That had to be enough to confound any person. Her drink came and as she sipped a voice next to her said, "Got a light?"

Sarah turned to the speaker, her countenance remaining hard. She wasn't usually inclined toward chatting with strangers at a bar. _Although, _she had hardly had a word with anyone for days. The stranger wore a white linen shirt with several pockets and cropped blonde hair, finger-waved in the fashion of the day. She was rather pretty and appeared to be wearing lip rouge. She smiled at Sarah with a friendly, amused expression, "Don't think I've seen you before. What brings you to a pub like this?"

"Friend suggested was a place I might like," Sarah answered charily passing her matchbook to the stranger.

"I see," the woman said, the corner of her smile curling up in an almost mischievous manner. Her expression prompted Sarah's eyes to narrow apprehensively and take another look around herself. Yes, there was something very off about this place. At last, Sarah realized the oddity was in the way the patrons were grouped. A couple of women chatted quietly at that table, a couple of men gossiped at this one. Not a single man spoke to a single woman. Finally she noticed the two blokes at the end of the bar whispering close together, one with his hand resting scandalously high on the other's knee. Sarah's eyes went wide. She pursed her lips, "Fitch!"

"Pardon," the stranger asked.

Furrowing her brow, Sarah tilted her head and stuck out her chin, "Nothing. I think someone is having a laugh at my expense," she mumbled.

"Oh," the stranger's smile waned, "I gather you'll be making a run for the door then?"

Sarah looked down at her whiskey, contemplating quietly for a moment. Then she shrugged her shoulders and said with a sigh, "Well I suppose I did want an adventure."

Her drinking partner raised an eyebrow, "So you're an adventurer are you," she said with a laugh. Seeing Sarah's tight expression the woman's tone softened, "Forgive me, I just thought - since you're wearing thick black linen in the sweltering oven that is Bombay - I assume you're working in service? I wouldn't imagine you folks tend to have much free time for adventuring. That's all. I meant no offense."

Sarah took another sip of her drink. She didn't like that her clothes gave her situation away so easily. "I _was_ in service, but the lady I served went home to Scotland."

"And you stayed here."

"She wanted me to pay for my own passage back so I stayed."

The woman raised her fingers to her lips, "you didn't have the money?"

"No, I did," Sarah said, almost affronted, "But only just. I almost asked her Ladyship to reconsider, knowing of course that she wouldn't, when it occurred to me - I could spend my life savings, arrive in Scotland wi' nowt and be forced to work for a woman I'd resent to my dying day, or I could just - stay. I could stay and have an adventure. The money was going to be spent either way and it will take me a lot further here than it would at home."

"And when the money runs out?"

"That will be a different kind of adventure I suppose," Sarah finished her whiskey and the barmaid brought another. She was suddenly feeling more talkative than she had in a very long time.

"Well I think you're very brave," said the woman leaning forward to clink her glass with Sarah's. They chatted over two more drinks, or was it three? The stranger was a journalist and of course, Sarah could tell by her accent, an American. She was investigating Indian resistance to British colonial rule. Sarah had no opinions. Although, she did enjoy the company and felt a twinge of disappointment when the blonde stood up from the bar and said, "It's getting late."

"Well it was nice talking," said Sarah, forcing a smile.

Appearing to reconsider, the journalist said, "Is it stuffy in here? I think I'll have a smoke on the terrace before I go...if you're interested."

Joining her new acquaintance on the dimly lit terrace, Sarah leaned her shoulder blades against the stone wall to steady herself on her feet. Thomas had always chided her for being a lightweight. She clumsily pulled out a fag and let the American light it for her with the matches she hadn't returned. "Nice night," Sarah mumbled looking up at the stars, she hated smalltalk. "This place is pretty deserted," the other woman commented. They smoked quietly for several minutes. Maybe they had run out of things to discuss. Fragments of thoughts sloshed around Sarah's drink-soaked brain, none coherent enough to put to words. Then, all at once, the journalist was standing very close to her. Sarah froze. Heart beginning to race, she gazed down at the unnaturally red lips only an inch from her own. She opened her mouth but no words escaped.

"So - how adventurous are you?" the stranger whispered, arching an eyebrow.

Before she could respond Sarah was being kissed. The night had been relatively cool but suddenly her face and ears felt hot. Eyes clenched shut, brow furrowed, Sarah tasted gin on the stranger's tongue. She dropped her cigarette and ran her hands through the blonde waves. It had been a long time, years. She'd not realized how quickly, how easily, she could slip back into the habit of sending and picking up on subtle signs - the lingering gaze, the brief touch of an arm, the casual invite to a secluded location. The American was kissing her neck then her collarbone and back up to her mouth as hands began gathering up her skirt. Sarah felt soft fingers caressing her knee, they swept slowly, deliberately up her inner thigh until-

She pulled away from the kiss, looking anxiously over at the vacant doorway back to the pub, "Somebody could come," Sarah said breathlessly.

"Let's hope so," the American grinned, moving her fingers again at last, touching Sarah in a way that made her eyelids flutter and her breath hitch in her chest.

An hour later, Sarah was alone in her hotel room, lying on her back, arm resting up behind her head. She stared contentedly at the ceiling, exhaling a swirl of smoke and recalling the unexpected events of the evening. Things had gone rather smoothly considering the time elapsed since the last time she did anything like that. She supposed the joke was on Fitch. Her lip curled into a self-satisfied smirk. In her mind, Sarah visualized the moment when her knees began to tremble and her breath became ragged against her impromptu lover's neck. A bell-tower had clanged in the distance. Midnight. Though she was preoccupied, clutching the journalist's shirt, moaning into her mouth, feeling the woman's fingers curl inside her, she could not prevent her Ladyship's schedule sliding unwarranted across her mind again. She would just be finishing her afternoon bath. Sarah saw her, Lady Grantham, standing naked before her, waiting to be dressed, gooseflesh drying in the afternoon breeze. A stray droplet of water perched precariously on her collarbone then trickling slowly - down - resting just above a hard nipple. Sarah reached up her hand to caress it away; and with this image burning in her thoughts, she came shuddering and gasping against the stranger.

Alone on her bed, Sarah's cheeks flushed again remembering the conversation after. The American had chuckled saying she had never before had anyone quite so polite. She wasn't used to being called "_m'Lady_." Sarah had smiled uncomfortably, relieved the darkness hid her reddening cheeks. Would she ever escape Lady Grantham? Did she want to? Surely she was safe five-thousand miles away. She had been fighting those visions, those fantasies for years, terrified of what might happen if she let them run rampant through her mind. Her unnatural yearning for her mistress was so strong she feared if she did not keep it tightly restrained at all times it would become as obvious to everyone as if it were written across her face. She would not even allow herself to touch the Countess more than absolutely necessary for fear that the power of her desire would conduct like electricity through her skin and then her Lady would know. She would know. And then what? The only thing more shameful than being desperate for someone so above her would be the mortification of that fact being discovered. Sarah was safe from that fate now. She could fantasize about anything she liked. Yet somehow, her mind usually tended to drift toward the most mundane of fancies. Sarah glanced over at the clock on the nightstand, quarter til two. Her ladyship would be taking her Friday afternoon constitutional.


	3. Chapter 3

The blonde tail of his Lordship's labrador retriever batted lightly against Lady Grantham's knee as she walked. With Robert so regularly away in London, Isis had become Cora's constant companion on her strolls through the gardens. Adjusting her hat brim to better shade her eyes from the glare, the countess wiped perspiration from her temple with a white-gloved hand. The sun was intense today - but surely not as intense as it must be in India. Damn! This obsession with the fate of her former maid was becoming truly bothersome. Why couldn't she escape these intrusive thoughts? She would likely never know - had no right to know - what happened. The woman did not belong to her, she had left.

_Still, _Cora spoke down to Isis, "If O'Brien were here she would be walking with us. She'd never stay inside to _chat up Mr. Molesley._" The dog whinged in response. "Oh you're right. Poor Baxter. I am very hard on her, aren't I. I really must stop condemning the woman simply for not being O'Brien."

The pair had come to a bench in the shade and Cora seated herself. Isis laid her head on Cora's knees in supplication, hoping for the reward of an ear rub. "But she's not O'Brien, is she," Cora continued, running her fingers through the appreciative animal's thick golden fur. "I miss the way she - oh but you probably didn't even like her," Isis tilted her head at her human companion's address, "your master certainly didn't." Robert had thought O'Brien practically machiavellian, Cora's nose wrinkled in indignation, as if his wife was only a gullible fool.

"Well let me set the record straight, my dear," Cora said, taking the lab's snout affectionately in her hands, "O'Brien was never anything but exactly what I wanted her to be," she looked into the big bewildered brown eyes, then out to grassy knoll. "Of course O'Brien would order me to stand still, command me to turn my head this way or that, scold me when I dawdled. She kept me apprised of all the goings on downstairs and up. She'd give her opinions freely and bluntly and without pretense, but all this only because she knew it pleased me for her to do so." Isis rolled over onto her back, tongue lolling, euphoric at such lavish attention, she exposed her belly for scratches and Cora obliged. "O'Brien could solve any problem, Isis. At the end of the day she was my relief, my reassurance." Cora sighed despairingly. Now there was no relief and her duties as mistress of the house felt at once tedious and overwhelming. "Well at least I have you, old girl."

Just then the dog jumped to attention with a bark and bounded away across the grass. Cora frowned, rolling her eyes.

"Good afternoon, m'Lady," a man in uniform was wheeling his bicycle up the walk to the house. Cora went to greet the postman and to shew the barking lab out of his way.

"Oh no, have you had an accident?" she asked, bending to inspect his dented front wheel-frame.

"Yes, m'Lady, as you can see, this old heap has had me running behind since morning," said the tired postman.

"Well I'm heading back to the house just now, why don't I take the post and save you the trip?" Cora offered. The young man thanked her profusely, handing her a stack of letters before turning back the way he came.

Strolling in the direction of the house, Cora began separating the letters for family from the ones for staff. She would hand those off to Carson when she reached the great hall. Flipping through the missives she glanced at each recipient until she stopped at one directed to Mr. Thomas Barrow. Something about the handwriting caught her attention. The travel-worn envelope was adorned with four large green and purple postage stamps and a few haphazard ink stamps, all in a mixture of English and foreign script. A purple stamp in the corner depicted a man in a turban with a banner reading _Travancore Anchal_, underneath that _India Postage &amp; Revenue_. India! The handwriting was O'Brien's, it must be! Cora felt a sudden urge to tear open the letter and read it where she stood on the lawn. Instead, she deposited it surreptitiously into her pocket and continued on to the house.

Later in the drawing room, as Mrs. Hughes recited the menus for the week, Cora gazed down at the purloined envelope on her writing desk. She would have to return it to Barrow. Maybe it wasn't even from O'Brien. There was no return address. The handwriting was familiar but could she really be sure? Plenty of people have impeccable handwriting. For all she knew, Mr. Barrow had a brother in India. "-if it pleases you m'Lady." Cora's musings were interrupted.

"Pardon? I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes."

"If the menu pleases your Ladyship I'll tell Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes repeated.

"Oh yes it's fine, thank you, Mrs. Hughes," Cora dismissed the housekeeper. "Actually," she stopped her, "Do you know if Mr. Barrow has family living in India."

Mrs. Hughes blinked in surprise, "Ah, well, I think- Yes, m'Lady, I do think I remember some mention of a cousin in India." Cora tried to hide her disappointment. Mrs. Hughes noticed but was mystified as to the cause or solution, "Will there be anything else, m'Lady?"

"No, thank you. Will you please send for Mr. Barrow?" the Countess said, turning back to her desk.

Upon Barrow's entry into the drawing room, Cora attempted clumsily to explain how her underbutler's mail had come into her possession. "I have a letter for you- I mean, I found your letter- I mean, well I didn't find it- I mean, it was mixed in with his Lordship's letters and so- anyway," she sheepishly held out the tattered envelope, "It's from your cousin in India."

Barrow looked warily down at his oddly behaving mistress, "Stephen's written?"

Cora blushed realizing Barrow had never actually told her personally about his cousin.

He took the letter from her and examining it, his suspicion turned to amusement. "Oh, no, m'Lady, this is from Miss O'Brien," he laughed.

Cora's heart leapt, "So you are in contact with her?," she beamed.

Barrow jumped, obviously taken aback by the Countess's abrupt earnestness, "Erm, well not exactly. I get a letter like this from her every few weeks or so but I've not written anything in return."

"Because of your falling out?" Cora asked. Barrow looked wary again. She really must stop invading the poor man's privacy. Next she will be asking if he's kissed any footman lately.

"No, m'Lady, I never have been able to hold a grudge for long, even when I probably should. I've not written back because, as you can see here," he showed her the envelope, "there's never any return address."

Cora nodded, "And- how is O'Brien?" she finally asked, her brow knitted with concern.

"Quite well, I imagine, she's been travelling all over India. 'S mostly what her letters are about - her 'adventures'. Last one was all about feeding monkeys on Elephant Island, or the monkeys stealing her biscuits more like. Apparently there are no elephants on the island, only monkeys. And she must have seen about a hundred Hindu temples by now."

"Really, oh that's wonderful news. Those letters must be so fascinating to read," Cora almost finished her sentence with a request but of course she could not impose on her employee that way. She simply smiled at Mr. Barrow.

The underbutler shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I suppose, your Ladyship could read them, if you like," he said awkwardly.

"Oh no I could never pry into your private correspondences, Barrow," Cora feigned surprise.

"Not very private. The letters really are only about travel. I'll bring them down, if it pleases you, m'Lady. I don't think she'd mind. Miss O'Brien was fond of you, even considering how she-" his voice trailed off.

At this last reassurance, the Countess gave a sentimental smile, "Yes, it would please me very much, thank you."

Over the next week, Cora read and reread _and reread_ the entire stack of letters Mr. Barrow had proffered to her. Apparently, to Cora's great relief, O'Brien had chosen to stay in India mostly of her own accord. The Countess actually admired her former maid's pugnacity. However, she did feel the slightest twinge of apprehension at the fact that none of O'Brien's letters indicated any plans for the future. While Lady Grantham did not pretend to fathom the financial constraints of the working class, she could appreciate that money must run out much faster for such people. This concern nibbled at the back of her mind. Still, Cora couldn't help but be enthralled by O'Brien's colorful descriptions of her adventures.

O'Brien had visited the Taj Mahal twice. Evidently, her first experience accompanying Susan Flintshire had proven rather unsatisfactory, with O'Brien carrying the woman's parasol and water and dinner pail and Susan deciding the crowd was too much after only a few minutes anyway. She returned again on her own and from her account the monument sounded as stunning, if not more so, as any description one might read in travel books. O'Brien had also visited several ancient fortresses with names Cora could not begin to pronounce. She described the vibrant clothing worn by the locals and the foods she had tried. More than once O'Brien thought she may have actually melted her tongue right out of her mouth with the spices. There was one letter several pages long, describing in great detail her experiences smoking from a hookah pipe. Cora imagined the information was much more interesting and comprehensible to Barrow. O'Brien discussed meeting and talking with a Sadhu holy man with wild beard and paint on his face and a Buddhist monk wearing saffron robes and hair shaved down to the scalp. In these letters O'Brien showed herself more philosophical than Cora had ever imagined her to be, the former maid was fascinated by Buddhism. Although, for whatever reason, O'Brien did not care much for the concept of Karma.

Each letter ended abruptly without conclusion, only a simple S. O. as valediction. Each finished that way, save one. The first letter, based on the envelope's post-date stamp, was signed Sarah O'Brien. She likely intended to make certain Thomas knew the origin of this unexpected letter from India. Cora gently rubbed the signature again with her thumb. The looping letters were becoming smudged and faded with habitual worrying. It seemed a silly thing, of course the Countess had always known O'Brien had a Christian name and that it was Sarah, but she could not remember ever seeing it written out like that, in her maid's own hand. She had never received a letter from O'Brien. Why would she? The woman had lived in the same house with her for twenty years. The closest she had come was a note, a simple hastily scribbled note with no signature at all, left behind for Mrs. Hughes to deliver. A note, the contents of which Cora preferred not to think of just now.

Sarah O'Brien. Sarah O'Brien. Suddenly Cora longed to have letters of her own from O'Brien, letters with that name, Sarah, elegantly inscribed at the bottom. If only Cora could write to her in India, if only there was some way. Gazing out her window at the rain, Cora bit her lip. Sarah would have found a way. The Countess looked back to the letters all spread out over her bed. Staring at them intently she tried to think like Sarah would think. She noticed something. At the top of several letters there was a blue emblem. Each of these letters was written on the same stationary several weeks apart. The emblem depicted a tiger and the name of a hotel in Bangalore. Sarah must stay at this hotel regularly, possibly a kind of headquarters for her excursions. Cora could write a letter to O'Brien there and the concierge could deliver it to her the next time she returned.

The countess pulled the cord for her maid, "I must have pen and paper this second. Do hurry, Baxter."

* * *

Tiny waves lapped against the wooden hull as Jitendra, their guide, rowed a little blue boat carrying Sarah and three other Englandi down the Ganges river. Each passenger was awed into silence at the vision of the majestic holy city of Varanasi passing them on either side. In her hand, Sarah held a small notebook and her Eversharp. She had switched to the mechanical pencil following a highly inconvenient incident resulting in the ink-stained ruin of several of her belongings. Thomas wouldn't mind pencil. Sarah gazed out at the evening sunlight splashed across the ancient city and began mentally drafting another letter.

She opened as she always did with an apology. She apologized for her part in their falling out, for treating him harshly, for her calculating words which led to his humiliation, for forcing the exposure of his secret which she had once promised was "safe with her." She rolled her eyes. It'd not ring true at all. She wasn't really sorry. If Thomas had not bullied poor Alfred, if he'd not been such a little shit meddling in her delicate relationship with Lady Grantham… Sarah's jaw clenched, but soon she relaxed, sighing to herself. She _had_ missed their friendship, and the coldness which followed was difficult. She was sorry for that. Maybe she would tell him how much what they'd had between them had meant to her, how she relied on their breaks together for her sanity, how her habit increased to nearly a pack a day after he came to Downton and she didn't even mind the affect on her pocketbook, how she had helped him into the position of valet - of course because of what he could do for her - but also because she truly believed he had the wits and the skill and deserved that position and more, how she pulled every string she had to bring him back to Downton during the war because she was desperate to see for herself that he was safe and sound, because she had missed him and worried for him every day. Sarah twisted her lip in disgust, shaking her head. No, far too soppy. He would hate that, it'd only embarrass them both. Clicking her pencil she began writing about the burning ghat to the left of their little boat.

"_-not nearly as gruesome as you might imagine. It really is almost moving to a see person go like that, rather than stowed away in a pinewood box and dropped in the earth, out of sight out of mind, easily forgotten. You won't soon forget your mother up in flames atop a wooden pyre, ashes blowing away on the wind. Maybe I'll tell my sister that's what I'd like. She can set me ablaze beside the Mersey. Avoid a lot of silly expense really, no need for a casket or a stone," or a funeral nobody would come to. _Sarah only thought that last bit to herself, it was too wretched to write down, no matter how true.

Now their boat passed a bathing ghat where the city's inhabitants washed themselves and their clothes in the river. Sarah had observed the morning ritual at sunrise that day from the steps. The men had praised the sun as it rose; flickering dots of orange light spreading over the whole Ganges. They chanted a monotonous sound that reverberated through everything, resounding in Sarah's ears and even behind her ribs. She would not tell of that experience in her letter. It was a private moment. Even if she had wanted to, Sarah could not likely find words to describe the calmness which had stolen over her at the sight, the profound sense of awe. She had learned, in life, how to maintain a steely expression while her mind ceaselessly calculated behind cool eyes. But this morning, unlike any other morning, there had been nothing behind them, only quiet, only breathing. Sarah was not religious and still she understood why this was a holy city. She watched the bathers. The afternoon was much less ritualistic. Men splashed water on their naked torsos. Women waded into the river fully draped in bright fabric.

Most of the women wore sarees more vibrant and extravagantly embroidered than the frock Sarah had made herself with cotton she bought from the textile merchants in Bangalore. Still, the jordy blue with silver embroidery was certainly a departure from her typical black on black - or possibly grey on grey for special occasions. She decided to tell Thomas about her new frock. He had always delighted in their discussions of women's fashion. The silver embroidery accented the neckline which was wide and hugged the shoulders, flattering her neck and collarbones. It had a drop waist and there was also subtly floral embroidery trimming the hemline of the skirt, cut higher on the calf than any of her previous frocks. The sleeves were elbow-length and wide enough to give a very comfortable airy feel in the summer heat. Sarah was quite pleased with her work and thought she might soon make herself another. "Maybe in red this time," she joked to her correspondent. Her black cloche no longer suited her blue dress and was rather hot besides, so, with Mr. Ramachandra's advice, Sarah had bought herself a sapphire blue silk scarf, printed with an intricate silver and bronze pattern, to cover her hair when necessary. She could imagine the expression of disapproval on Lady Flintshire's face if the old bag could see her now, her _very native-looking_ scarf draped about her shoulders. The word "_hybridity"_ echoed vaguely in Sarah's ears. She grimaced.

"_You know, Thomas, there was once a time when I thought I might actually get on well with Lady Flintshire." _The former lady's maid rolled her eyes at herself. Unbelievable. "_The Marchioness had been so complimentary when the Grantham's last stayed at Duneagle. I realize now, from experience, that Lady Flintshire's fawning over another maid had been more about needling Wilkens than any flattery of myself."_ Sarah's hand paused, she must have been so miserable at Downton that _any_ change seemed a welcome relief. She had actually convinced herself that Lady Flintshire's general dissatisfaction with the world was an advantage, that it might unite them in common misanthropy. But Sarah had never much cared for gazing at herself in the mirror.

"_Lady Flintshire was too sour even for me, and I know that's saying something. She kicked a scullery maid, a girl simpler even than Daisy. Can you imagine Lady Grantham kicking Daisy? Never! But the nasty woman could find fault in anything or anyone. I don't know how she wasn't exhausted by hate. I was exhausted just listening to the bitch moan. Cook added too much spice on purpose or the maids kept the windows too clean and now the sun was shining too brightly into her room. Then of course it was appalling to hear her complain about something I myself loathed, spitting out the same scathing words I once uttered, my churlishness amplified from her mouth. Was I really so miserable? They say what we hate in others is often what we hate most in ourselves." _Sarah lifted her pencil and looked at the page. If she continued she would surely begin confessing just how much she had hated herself, how she had been consumed with self-loathing, and how much she feared she still might be - and then she would have to drop the letter in the river. She could never send something so pitiful to Thomas. Revealing weakness, even from five thousand miles away, was unthinkable. She had probably already revealed too much. Sarah bit her lip, rereading her last sentences. She hated to waste paper. It would have to do. She signed with an "S.O." and stuffed the letter in an envelope, sealing it before she could change her mind.

Sarah's stomach growled. When the boat docked it would be time for tea. Lady Grantham would just be waking. Sarah felt, with sudden conviction, that it was time to pay a visit to Mr. Ramachandra again. She would leave for Bangalore tomorrow.

* * *

A/N: There will be more coming tomorrow


	4. Chapter 4

Cora stood motionless, staring out her bedroom window. The blazing sun made her eyes squint. With the curtains drawn back, the Countess could feel heat radiating through the glass. This must be what Sarah feels every day. She ruminated once more over the letter she had sent to her former maid. Nearly two months passed with no response. Cora sighed. There was a knock at her bedroom door. Baxter would never knock. The caller must be Robert. He'd been sheepish and ridiculously formal with her lately. He was most certainly having an affair. She had heard a rumor that it was Lady Langley. Well, if he could be charmed by that dimwit in heels then maybe he really was as thick as Cora had always feared. Another knock at the door. "Come in," Cora called without turning from the window. She heard the knob rattle, the deadlatch clicking, open then closed but Robert said nothing.

"M'Lady."

Cora's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened. She turned. There, standing in the middle of her bedroom was a woman draped in exotic red and gold silk. But the woman was not exotic. She was familiar. She was Sarah.

"I read your letter. I knew I had to come home."

Cora rushed forward to embrace her prodigal maid. She hugged the her tightly, laying her head on O'Brien's shoulder. Her heart swelled with such relief. Then she pulled back to look at Sarah's face again. She gazed into those knowing blue eyes. Suddenly, without a single thought, Cora kissed the woman standing in front of her. Sarah pulled her close.

On the bed they were naked beneath sheets. Cora felt Sarah's hot bare skin pressing her into the mattress. An aching grew between her hips and her heart raced as their bodies writhed together, kissing, caressing. Hands gripped her breast, her thigh, tongue and lips traced along her collarbone. "Oh, Sarah," the Countess moaned. "M'Lady."

"M'Lady," Baxter soothed, "m'Lady, it's morning."

Cora woke with a start.

"Did you have a nightmare, m'Lady?"

Looking around herself, disoriented and still breathing heavily, Cora blushed, "Yes. I must have."

Once dressed and reacquainted with reality, Cora stood staring again out her bedroom window. Soft rain drizzled down the windowpanes. Cora shivered.

"Will you want a sweater today?"

"No thank you, Baxter, that will be all."

Finally alone, Cora grappled with her unwarranted but nevertheless intense disappointment. What exactly transpired in her dream was fading from her memory. The colors were dimming, the sensations were dulling but the aching for her maid had still been coursing through her even as Baxter was arranging her breakfast. She attempted rather unsuccessfully to convince herself that she had forgotten her dream, that nothing unseemly could be causing the redness in her cheeks - or the niggling sense of embarrassment. She could not, however, convince herself that she was not disappointed. It was only a dream. It was only a dream. O'Brien had not come home, would not be coming. Two months and no response. Maybe the letter never reached it's destination. Thomas had received another letter a few weeks ago and graciously allowed Cora to read it, but the message gave no indication that O'Brien had had any unexpected communications. The letter did, however, make Cora regret her familial association with anyone as beastly to her serving staff as Susan Flintshire. Although, maybe Sarah felt the same way about _her_. Maybe Cora was not the kind mistress she had always imagined herself to be. She'd never kicked a maid, no, but could she have offended in some other way without realizing. What if O'Brien really had gotten her letter and wanted nothing to do with her? The Countess bit her lip, forehead creasing.

Over breakfast with Rosamund, Cora quietly picked at her eggs.

"-and of course you know Mama pretends to detest any acknowledgement of her birthday but if Robert and I don't, at the very least, plan a small fête in her honour she'll be terribly put out."

"Is everything alright, dear?," Rosamund finally asked.

Cora's distress was apparently rather poorly hidden. In that moment, the Countess decided, however rashly, to disclose to her sister-in-law all of her recent efforts and concerns. Rosamund, to Cora's great relief, listened patiently and without judgement.

"Do you think it was a very silly idea to send that letter?"

Shrugging her shoulders, "Well," Rosamund consoled, "good help is so hard to find these days." Cora smiled faintly. Her breakfast companion took another bite of tomato and dabbed the corners of her mouth with her serviette. "I had no idea Baxter was so dreadful."

"Oh no, Baxter is perfectly adequate but Sarah was really - something," Cora smiled a faint dreamy smile. Her eyes flited back to her sister-in-law and noticed Rosamund's smirking lips and raised eyebrow. "What?"

"You called her _Sarah_."

"Oh- I- did I?," Cora stumbled, still smiling sheepishly. Her cheeks felt hot, she knew she must be bright red again, "I- we were close." Rosamund's smirk widened to an almost obscene grin. "Well, I thought we were close. Maybe she didn't," Cora conceded, smile faltering.

Rosamund laid her hand over Cora's and gave it a squeeze, "She simply hasn't received the letter yet. From the sound of it, she travels endlessly. You will have word from her soon enough, I'm quite certain."

Cora nodded, sighing.

* * *

Sarah's shoes rested unbuckled and discarded next to her adirondack chair. She dug her toes into the sand. She would be shaking the grit out of her stockings for weeks but she didn't care. A salty breeze tussled her curls and she brushed them out of her eyes. She had managed to quit Bangalore for the Goa coast before the malaria outbreak caught her and now here she sat watching gulls dive at the dark blue and white crested waves, a palm tree shading her from the noonday sun. Physically, Sarah was the picture of health, but emotionally she was tied in knots. The money was running out. In a week or two, when the plague cleared, she would return to Bangalore. She could stretch her funds there for another month. Then what? A forty-seven year old woman without reference had few options in England. Here she didn't even speak the language. Maybe Mr. Fitch could get her work as a scullery maid, but bloody hell, the idea of returning to Calcutta turned her stomach. What's more, could she even be sure she could manage the grueling and toilsome work of a scullery maid at her age?

The back of Sarah's mind gnawed at her, perpetually reminding that there was a solution if she chose to take it. She reached into the collar of her dress and pulled out a tattered letter. Slouching forward in her chair, forearms on her knees, cigarette resting between her lips, ankles deep in sand, Sarah opened the the yellowing paper along well-worn fold lines. For the hundredth time, she reread Lady Grantham's tiny woehrling script, pondering the impossible and confounding message. The letter commended her boldness and sense of adventure, assured her all was forgiven and forgotten, invited her to return home at the Countess's expense. Unbelievable. She had paced her room for an hour the first time she read it, completely unwilling to accept it could be real. Surely there had been some mistake. But there was no mistaking, the envelope was directed to Miss Sarah O'Brien, care of The Sai Vishram Hotel, Bangalore. It was signed "Yours," her Ladyship's typical valediction, Sarah had seen it before on countless correspondences, and invitations, and thank you cards. Although, to anyone aside from the little Ladyships, her letters were always signed "C. Grantham" after the valediction. Even the Dowager got "C. Grantham," his Lordship only got "C.," but Sarah gazed down at the signature on this letter directed to Miss Sarah O'Brien.

"Cora Grantham" - written out like that. "_Cora_." What did it mean? Sarah's brow crinkled then she shook the question from her mind for a more pressing one. Would she accept her Ladyship's invitation. Could she?

Such a simple solution to all her problems - and she would see her Lady again. But _all_ was not forgiven and forgotten to Sarah. She would see Bates again as well, and ever-suspicious Mr. Carson, and even Mrs. Hughes had inexplicably taken Thomas's side in their falling out. _Thomas._ Then there was Thomas. Sarah had no reason to believe he would be so forgiving. She'd had no letters from him. She feared what he would have to say to her. He likely wouldn't be wrong. She never realized how bleak Downton had become for her, until she'd gone, or how she lashed out against it and everyone there. But she was changed - or something like that. She liked who she had become in India, even when she worked for the Flintshires. Mr. Kahn had been inclined toward her, he found her asides very droll and was never so constantly suspicious of her actions and motives as Mr. Carson. The rest of the staff seemed to admire her work-ethic - _for an English_ \- or at least empathize with her for having to work so closely with Lady Flintshire. Sarah did not want to look back. She did not want to go back. She had all but renounced completely that miserable part of her life, even leaving off return addresses from her letters to avoid it coming to find her.

Honestly, she would be more bothered if she were not so impressed with Lady Grantham's ingenuity in ferreting her out. Sarah smiled briefly at the idea of the Countess working out a scheme. Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she flicked it's ashes into the sand. "_I look forward to hearing from you,"_ she read to herself. She was going to disappoint her Lady again. But what response could she possibly write? "Dear Lady Grantham, I would love to accept your gracious offer to come home but I can't because nobody likes me?" Pathetic. And if she did go back, surely they've all heard the story by now. She would arrive disgraced and shamefaced, rescued by the woman everyone knows she doesn't deserve. Sarah's grip on the letter tightened, crumpling the corner. She imagined herself tearing it to shreds and letting the pieces blow away into the ocean. She would never be tempted to read it again. Her grip relaxed. Gazing down again at the looping signature, she thumbed the fading name - _Cora_. Then she refolded the paper and replaced it to it's home over her heart.

Rolling her eyes at herself - Christ, she was maudlin - and blowing a whisp of smoke out the corner of her mouth, Sarah faced the ocean again. And what would Lady Grantham be doing at this moment on a day like today? Sleeping most likely, in two hours her new maid would bring her breakfast in bed. Sarah would skip breakfast to save money. She leaned on her elbow, resting her head in her hand as the breeze tussled her curls back into her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Stepping down from the motorcar onto the crowded and bustling dock, Cora breathed in the cool dawn air and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She had risen nearly two hours earlier than her usual and couldn't help but doze in the back seat on their short journey from the hotel to the port. She craned her neck to gaze up at the massive ocean liner moored before her. For the next seven days the RMS Mauretania would be home to herself, Mary, little George, and Sybbie until they arrived in New York, where the children would meet their great grandmother for the first time. The ship boasted the highest in luxury and comfort. Cora very much doubted she would have a comfortable journey. Just as she was finally becoming acclimated to Baxter, Molesley went and stole the woman away. Of course, Mary's maid would assist her for their trip but with Anna in a family way, this new girl was simply another stranger to Cora. She sighed to herself and witnessed the hundreds of other passengers jostling one another with their luggage and herding themselves onto the gangway.

She watched Tom directing the crewmen who hoisted up her trunk and carried it to the cargo hold. He bent down, scooping Sybbie into his arms and planting kisses all over her pudgy little cheeks, instructing her to be a good girl and to mind her granny, and auntie, and Nanny Stevens, and telling her he'd miss her so so much. Cora had invited him to join them but Robert simply refused to give Tom a break from his duties as estate manager. Finally he handed the girl off to Mary, embraced his sister-in-law and watched the two of them make their way toward the ship. Cora stood with him by the car. Over the cacophony of the crowd they could here Sybbie beginning to squeal and cry for her papa. Tears welled up in Tom's eyes. He attempted to put on a brave face, smiling and waving good bye to his daughter. Suddenly Cora had an idea. Actually the idea was one she had been considering for weeks, but with sudden conviction she knew that she would carry it out. On the fender she rested her stuff bag containing another dress, and shoes, her toiletries, her pocketbook, and her most valuable jewelry.

"Tom," she said, rummaging through the bag, "you must take this." Cora pulled from an inside pocket, her boarding pass and handed it to her son-in-law.

"What? Oh no I couldn't!"

"Tom, I insist."

"I couldn't possibly- and Robert- and I've only got the bag I brought for the night in Liverpool - your trunk has already been loaded onto the ship."

"A few dresses and some books. I won't miss them for five weeks. You let me handle Robert, and here take this to buy the things you need in New York." She handed him fifty pounds.

"M'Lady- Cora, I really couldn't - it's too much."

"You are my son and the father of my granddaughter, you should accompany her on her first voyage to America. I will handle my husband. You must go with Sybbie."

Finally, Tom acquiesced, hugging his mother-in-law and thanking her profusely. With glistening eyes he snatched up his bag from the boot and ran for the crowded gangway. Watching him go, Cora breathed deeply. She was really doing this. She was really implementing the plan she had been toying with for the last several weeks, ever since Mary suggested they visit her mother. She walked around the car to the driver. "Please inform his Lordship, upon your return to Downton, that Mr. Branson will be accompanying myself and Lady Mary to America."

With her family safely out of the way and all of those loose ends tied up, it was time for the next step. Turning her back to the ship and scanning the signs overhead she searched for the one she needed. There. P&amp;O Steam and Navigation Company. She carried her small but heavy bag herself over to the queue of travelers beneath the sign. After a short wait she had purchased her ticket and within an hour, an hour that seemed steeped in a haze of unreality, she found herself sitting on the bed in her private birth aboard the SS Empress of India. As the fog horns sounded and she felt the rumble of motion beneath her feet, Cora pinched herself to be sure she was not dreaming again. There was no going back now. Was she completely insane? She laid on her bed looking up at the ceiling, trying to calm her mind. She thought of O'Brien - tried to picture her in the blue dress she had described in that letter to Thomas. For some reason, which Cora could not explain, the image of O'Brien looking beautiful in blue made her heart beat just a little bit faster.

* * *

Sarah sat on her wooden chair facing the pockmarked and aging wall of her quarters at _The Shai_, a pencil and paper rested on the table in front of her. She still looked rather well in her blue cotton frock but there was certainly more room in it for her hips than their had been a month ago. She was not starving, only a bit leaner. She had been back in Bangalore for a fortnight and had begun limiting herself to two small meals a day. At this rate she could stretch her last remaining rupees for another three weeks or so, fewer if she decided to take the train up to Calcutta. She grimaced at the blank page and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. She was too stubborn and too proud. She had picked up the pencil what seemed like a thousand times but she could not bring herself to write.

Sarah was confident Fitch would help her find work but the idea of admitting defeat in a pleading letter, of conceding to her own foolhardiness was too much to bare. She had not written a word for over a month, not even to Thomas, knowing now that a message to Thomas was tantamount to a message to her Ladyship. She could no longer speak freely to him, to anyone. She was feeling the same isolation she felt just before leaving Downton, only more pervasive now because she did not even have an excuse to be at least present at a dinner table full of fellow servants. Sarah stared down at the blank page. Maybe she could write to Lady Grantham directly, to allay the Countess' fears - and her own conscience. She could tell her everything is fine and not to worry over the likes of her. She could tell her she was a wonderful mistress, no one could ask for better. Sarah had never deserved her. She could apologize for leaving the way she did. She had been a coward but she never could bear Lady Grantham's disappointed face. She could apologize for other things… then her Ladyship might not be so eager to bring her back.

Sarah picked up her pencil and began writing, "Dear Mr. Fitch," Her stomach growled and she laid the pencil back down. She had long since stopped sitting by the window as the smells of the market only reminded her of her mild yet perpetual hunger. Nevertheless, the aroma of fried bread creeped in, permeating the room. Her mouth watered but she had to wait at least two more hours to eat or she would have trouble sleeping again tonight. She lit a fag instead. Leaning back in her chair, Sarah's thoughts did not drift to Lady Grantham's daily habits. She spent very little time considering what the Countess might be up to these days. All of the unoccupied space in her mind seemed dedicated to the samosas she would have for tea, or the spicy lamb curry and rice she prefered when she hadn't been so near, flaky pani puri, crispy greasy fish and chips, Mrs. Patmore's steak and kidney pie, peas and mash, sticky toffee pudding, apple tart - her Ladyship's favourite.

* * *

Cora gripped her seat as her stomach somersaulted along with the motion of the bumping, rumbling rickshaw. Still, this nausea was nothing compared to her last three weeks on the stormy seas and it did not distract from her utter vexation. How could she have been so careless? Her stuff bag was gone. On the train from Bombay to Bangalore she had fallen asleep with it resting on the floor by her feet. When she awoke, the bag had vanished. Stupid stupid. Her dresses, her other shoes, all of her toiletries, gone - probably perfuming and powdering the face of some thief's very lucky wife by now. In Cora's one stroke of good fortune since she left England, she had used her small purse containing her pocketbook and jewelry as a pillow on the train and still had it with her. She would simply have to buy new dresses and soaps.

When the rickshaw finally slowed to a stop, Cora guessed they had arrived at the _Bangaluru Pete_ as she requested, based on the helpful conductor's directions before she exited the train. Now it was time to find the hotel. As the mob of people, and carts, and cows crowded the streets around her, Cora grew more and more intimidated by her next task. For a moment, she thought she might ask to be taken back to the trainstation. Instead she climbed down onto the dusty street. She paid her fare and began walking in any direction. She would have to ask someone to direct her to _The Shai Vishram_. She did not speak any Indian languages and hoped someone would know enough English or at least understand her when she said the hotel name. Of course, she saw the occasional English officer with whom she could certainly communicate her needs more easily. But she feared, maybe irrationally, that she would somehow be recognized and hauled off to the British embassy, scolded for her foolishness and sent scandalized and humiliated back to her husband. She meant to be watching for a kindly-looking Indian woman to help her but she was so overwhelmed by the colours, the fragrances, the sounds filling her senses that she completely forgot her mission.

Cora wandered aimlessly for nearly an hour, observing the bustling city around her. She stopped at a flower seller to admire his vibrant strands of marigolds. Opening the purse hanging at her side and reaching for her pocketbook, Cora's heart caught in her throat. Her hand passed right through the bottom of the bag. There was a slice clean across the seam. Turning, she saw a trail of jewels strewn on the street behind her and hordes of barefoot children snatching up the glimmering pieces then disappearing into the crowd. "Stop!" she shouted as she stumbled and bent to rescue what few possessions she had left from the dirt. People jostled her on either side, seeming not to even notice her distress. Securing four bracelets on her wrist, three necklaces around her neck and shoving a few earings into the pockets of her travel coat, Cora willed herself not to weep in public. Her pocketbook was nowhere, vapor. Swallowing the lump in her throat she reassured herself that she was not defeated yet. Her jewelry was worth something. Maybe Sarah would know how to barter. She needed to find that hotel.

Mercifully, Cora did not have to search very hard for assistance. A gentle-looking old woman, hunched over a walking stick, hobbled over to her. She asked in very broken English if Cora needed help. Cora gave the name of the hotel and the woman smiled brightly, motioning for her to follow. Heart bursting with relief, the Countess trailed along as the woman snaked through the crowd with surprising agility. They turned several corners and eventually left the hustle and bustle of the market behind them. At first, the quiet was a relief to Cora's senses but soon her instincts began sounding little alarms. The streets as they walked became narrower and darker, the people more ragged and leering. She considered going back to the market but she couldn't be sure she knew the way after so many twists and turns.

Finally the old woman stopped. A larger hulking woman, in a green and red sari, came out from a dilapidated shelter. Cora was tall but this woman was a giant. She spoke gruffly to the old woman in a language Cora did not understand and the old woman responded, pointing conspiratorially to Cora. Soon the large woman was looming over her. She growled a command and reached for Cora's wrist. The countess pulled away protecting her jewelry with her other hand. She backed away but the women pursued. Before she could even scream for help, her assailants were upon her. They pried the bracelets off of her wrists and tore the necklaces from her neck. Though Cora fought, the behemoth of a woman thrust her hard against the brick wall, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Then the two thugs wrenched her travel coat from her body. The giant made for her shoes but, when she saw the old woman putting on the coat, she turned away to argue. Slinking down beside the wall, trying to catch her breath, Cora realized her muggers were momentarily distracted. So she ran. She ran and ran, through the dark alley, not knowing where she was going, only that there was a bright and crowded street up ahead.

Tumbling out into the sunny thoroughfare and glancing over shoulder to be sure she wasn't pursued, Cora collided with a British officer and his bespectacled young wife.

"Are you quite alright, madame?" the mustachioed officer asked, eyes wide with surprise. His wife watched with a stunned expression, hiding her gaping mouth behind a dainty white-gloved hand. Cora's hair was tussled and loose, her dress was ripped, and her cheek was scraped and bleeding. The gentleman held Cora's arm to steady her while his wife asked if there was anything they could do. Taking the handkerchief offered to her, Cora pressed it to her cheek and stared blankly past the couple while they spoke. All at once, her brain registered what she was seeing. There, across the way, in bright red lettering above a white stone building, _The Shai Vishram Hotel_.

As the couple looked on in confusion, Cora began laughing bitterly to herself. She had no money, she barely even had clothes. She could not possibly book a room and O'Brien might not even be there anyway. The former maid could be traveling for weeks. She may not come back at all, having found work in some other city. Cora's laughter quickly turned to tears and the officer's wife comforted her with a gentle hand on her shoulder, saying, "Oh you poor poor dear." She would have to tell them what happened. She would have to beg them to take her to the embassy. She would be sent home disgraced and scandalized. Robert would be livid. How could she explain herself? What would this couple say when she told them she was the Countess of Grantham?

* * *

Through narrow eyelids, Sarah sensed the glaring sunlight streaming into her room. How could it be so bright at dawn? Was it summer? Couldn't be, she was shivering. She wanted to pull more blankets over herself but she was too exhausted, too tired to move. Beads of sweat speckled her forehead. Succumbing to another fit of violent coughs she decided that when Daisy came with her morning tea she would tell the girl to have Hughes ring Dr. Clarkson. Where was Daisy anyway? Opening her eyes fully, Sarah searched the room, disoriented. Finally, she realized she was not at Downton Abbey, she was in Bangalore. Her focus settled on the barely-touched piece of naan bread going stale on her table. She had no appetite. From the angle of the sun through her window it was not morning at all but mid afternoon. Sparkling dust motes floated in the shaft of light. The brightness of the sun made the place behind her eyes ache. All of her muscles and joints ached as well. She dragged her tongue across her dry lips, tasting something metallic on her teeth. With much effort, she lifted her hand to her face. She touched her fingers to her mouth and, pulling them away, found they were smeared with blood. If it were not so painful to move and if she were not so utterly drained of energy, the panic she felt at the sight of her red-streaked fingers might have had her crawling for the door, calling to the bellhop for assistance. Instead her eyes fluttered closed again. She was so tired. She would tell Daisy to get help when she came with tea.


	6. Chapter 6

"_Missing Countess Found Stranded and Destitute in India After ill-conceived Plot Goes Awry."_ Cora could already imagine the headlines. After all of those years of admonishing her daughters not to bring scandal down upon the family here she was. "I- you see I lost my bag on the train and then- well I think what I need is-" she didn't know where to start.

"Oh an American!" the officer's wife exclaimed gleefully, "my mother is American."

Cora stopped. After three decades in England surrounded by people who were accustomed to her, she had all but forgotten she had an accent. Yes this could work. She was American. She could ask the officer and his wife to escort her to the American embassy. She could present herself as Cora Levinson and have the embassy contact her mother. That thought was not exactly comforting but after Harold's Teapot Dome scandal surely Martha Levinson could spare some assistance for the daughter who has never given her any trouble before now. Although, Cora did not kid herself. An infamy attached to a daughter always brings more dishonour to a family than any attached to a son. She bit her lip as the couple looked on, waiting for her to tell them how they might be of assistance.

Finally, Cora straightened her posture. She pushed her hair back from her forehead and turned with a purposeful expression to the officer. This was not over. She had come too far. She would not stop trying now. "Thank you both so very much, but I see my hotel just across the way."

"You must let us walk you," the officer insisted.

"Oh thank you, but I really am alright. My husband is just inside. Thank you, you've been so kind," Cora said, hurrying away from the couple, "May I keep this? Thank you!" She waved the borrowed handkerchief at the befuddled and nodding Englishwoman. Cora cared little whether she had broken with proper etiquette - she was American afterall. She used the silk square to wipe any smudges from her face as she made her way for the grand entrance of the hotel. The lobby was spacious and elegant, though not as elegant as some place she might stay with his Lordship. Waiting for the concierge, the Countess used the mirror behind the desk to tuck loose curls of hair back into place and straighten her dress.

After five minutes, a middle-aged Indian man appeared from around the corner. His hair was black except for a few wisps of silver flaring up from his temples and he wore a white suit with a gold necktie. The concierge's face was serious and distinguished but when he noticed Cora waiting at the desk he became instantly hospitable. He smiled affably and asked if he might be of assistance. She had not really considered how she would go about this part.

She tried to look confident, "I'm here to see Sarah O'Brien."

The concierge, whom Cora had deduced was Mr. Ramachandra, raised his bushy eyebrows in obvious surprise. Remembering himself, he asked, "is Miss O'Brien expecting you? She has not left any note here about a visitor."

Cora hesitated, "No, she isn't. But- I'm sure she wouldn't mind. We're old friends. I was hoping you could tell me where to find her."

Mr. Ramachandra continued smiling but his eyes became ever-so-slightly suspicious. "I do apologise, Madam, but I'm sure you understand I must protect the privacy of my guests." Then seeing the countess' disappointment he suggested he would send a lobby boy to inform Miss O'Brien that she had a visitor. He turned to a boy who looked small enough to be eight but was most likely closer to twelve. The boy wore a maroon and gold uniform with a flat-top hat strapped tightly under his chin. Mr. Ramachandra gave a quick command in their native tongue and the boy repeated his same expression of obvious surprise. When the boy asked a question, the concierge gestured toward the wall lined with hooks and keys. He pointing to an empty hook labeled 306 then shewed the boy away to his task.

While Cora waited at the desk she began to feel her heart pound. This was it. Sarah was here. She was only yards away. The concierge seemed to note her anxiety and spoke to her warily. He asked how long she had been acquainted with Miss O'Brien and Cora attempted a relaxed and not-suspicious-at-all smile, "Nearly twenty years." She noticed she was drumming her fingers on the desk and tapping her foot on the marble floor. The Countess grabbed her unruly digits with her other hand and willed herself to be as still and natural as possible. Then the lobby boy was hustling down the grand staircase toward them. Already? How could he be so quick? She was not ready. She had no idea what she would say to O'Brien.

The concierge asked him a question and the boy replied again in a language Cora did not understand - except for two words, clear as a bell. "Go away," the boy mimicked in a cantankerous tone. Cora's heart sank. As Mr. Ramachandra turned to her, she swallowed the lump already forming in her throat. "I am sorry, Madam, but it appears Miss O'Brien does not wish to be disturbed," said the concierge, with a genuine look of compassion at the Countess' disconsolate expression. Cora felt herself nod and mumble some form of thanks to the man. Then she turned and began walking in a crestfallen haze toward the doors.

* * *

Sarah was roused from fevered sleep to the sound of some commotion. Hall boys causing a ruckus in the servants quarters again. She heard one of them pounding on her door, calling her name. Damn Lady Flintshire! Expecting her to rise and tend to her at all hours of the night. She would put in her notice! "Go away!" she rasped to the hall boy. Why could they not let her sleep? She was so tired. The effort of shouting made her convulse in another fit of vigorous coughs. Her hair was wet against her pillow. What was that taste - like copper, in her mouth? She would have to tell Mum she was too poorly for school today.

* * *

The countess wiped a tear from her cheek as she stepped over the threshold of _The Shai_ and back out into the blazing Indian sun. She shielded her eyes with her hand. How could everything have gone so terribly wrong? How could she not have seen this coming? She had never truly believed for a second that O'Brien would turn her away. How could the woman turn her away? Why would she? What had Cora ever done to be so ill-used? Suddenly her dejection transformed into indignation. She had travelled four thousand miles to find this woman and by God she would see her. At the very least she deserved an explanation.

She turned on her heels and marched back through the hotel entrance. She glanced _casually _to the reception desk. Deserted. Room 306 - the concierge had pointed to that number on the wall of keys. As quickly as she could manage without drawing attention to herself, the Countess darted past the desk and up the grand staircase. By the time she reached the third floor she was panting. She fanned herself. This country truly was ungodly hot. Three-forty-nine, three-forty-eight, three-forty-seven, she followed the room numbers down. When she turned a corner, the wallpaper and carpeting became less ornate. She seemed to have wandered into the staff quarters. Maybe she had made a mistake. But Cora's instincts told her this is where O'Brien would be. There - 306. She stood before the door, hesitating for seconds, possibly minutes, steeling herself. Then finally, Cora knocked.

* * *

Why the bloody hell is Daisy knocking at the door? Just bring in the damn tea! Sarah opened her eyes. With a start she realized once again that she was not at Downton. Daisy'd not been knocking. Only dreams. Only vivid, terrible, fever dreams that made her heart ache for home. Her eyelids sagged. Knock. Knock. Knock. They shot back open. That was not a dream. Someone was knocking - not Daisy - but someone was knocking, pounding at her door. Who was at the door mattered little, Sarah needed help and very soon. She opened her mouth to call out but her throat was dry and aching. No sound above a quiet rasp left her blood spattered lips. With extreme effort she pushed herself up to sitting and shuffled her feet to the floor. Her head was spinning. She focused on the door - it may as well have been a thousand meters away - she'd never make it. She let her eyes fall shut once more and felt her body sink helplessly back onto the mattress.

* * *

Her knuckles were beginning to hurt but there was no answer. There may have been a sound of movement inside. Bed springs creaking. Surely the woman could not be sleeping through this rain of blows against the door. No, Cora was being ignored. This was it, this was well and truly the end. The Countess let her hands fall weakly to her sides. She must stand down. Her desire for reunion was not reciprocated. She turned, took two steps away from the door and stopped. She crossed her arms over her stomach and gave into the sobs she had been holding back since she left the hotel lobby in the first place. Her shoulders shook and tears rushed down her cheeks. Anyone could come upon her like this, in a frightful state in the hallway, but Cora did not care. She did not care about anything anymore. But then - there was a noise behind her. Possibly the sound of a doorknob turning.

* * *

Sarah leaned heavily against the doorframe. Her legs were hardly strong enough to support her own weight. Thomas had loomed over her just minutes ago. Told her to "get up off your arse you noodle" he wanted a smoke in the yard before breakfast. That was a hallucination. She was clear-headed now. She was in _The Shai Vishram_ hotel in Bangalore, India and she was very _very_ ill. Her brow dripped sweat from the effort of standing and her harrowing trek to the door. Stars floated in her vision and she was sure to swoon any moment. Her hands fumbled for the door handle, gripping it weakly. She only needed to turn it and call for the lobby boy. Her clammy hand slipped and lifting it back up seemed an impossible task. She was going to die like this. The realization struck her. She was dying here. Finally, with a last burst of effort she pulled the door open. The gust of fresh air from the hallway was like arctic wind against the damp skin of her face. The light was blindingly bright. She squinted and saw standing before her, an angel. Dear God, she really was dead. No, it was not an angle, it screamed, it was rushing toward her. She was only hallucinating again. Sarah was collapsing and of course Lady Grantham could not be catching her.

Cora had turned back to the hotel room door with the brass three zero six, her tears had stopped, as it slowly drew open. But elation was not the emotion Lady Grantham felt when the ghostlike figure of what could have been her former maid staggered from the room. The woman's skin was deathly pale and glistening with sweat. Her damp hair was uncharacteristically flat and matted to her forehead. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. The Countess could not help but let out a scream in shock and fear. Then the wild delirious eyes focused on Cora and just as they began to gleam with recognition, Sarah O'Brien collapsed. Lady Grantham lunged forward to catch her and the two of them slumped onto the floor. In her arms, Cora held the limp body of her former maid, cradling her head, smoothing her hair back behind her ear, whispering her name, and calling, screaming down the hall for anyone - please anyone - to help.

* * *

A/N: There are two more chapters to be published soon


	7. Chapter 7

The doctor Cora hired with money she found in the portmanteau in O'Brien's room said something about dengue fever. She was too distraught to focus on any of his further findings. She only wanted to know if her maid - her former maid - her friend was going to die. After looking his patient over, applying a damp cloth to her forehead to cool the burning fever, feeding her medicine and water in brief moments of semi-consciousness, and waiting for progress, the doctor concluded, to Cora's unimaginable relief, that Miss O'Brien was likely found just in time. Although, she would need careful attention over the next day or two with water and cold towels to keep the fever at bay.

The Countess cared for her charge attentively, though O'Brien was hardly aware of her presence. For several hours, Sarah remained in a state of delirium, speaking mostly incoherently and apologizing for all sorts of outlandish things. Something about soap, something about a pie and a witch and prison, and about someone named Jimmy, and especially the soap, Cora could not make heads or tails of any of it. But she stayed up all night and all day, wiping O'Brien's brow with a cool cloth, coaxing her to drink water when she could, holding her tremulous hand, until finally the fever broke. Cora's back ached from dozing in the wooden chair but Sarah slept peacefully at last.

Sarah had slept soundly for the better part of two days while Lady Grantham kept vigil at her bedside. Now dusk was approaching again. Shadows stretched across the wood floor. Cora leaned her head from one side to the other, cracking out the stiffness. She arched her back and twisted to the left, her spine making a series of popping noises. She twisted the other way for three more pops in quick succession.

"How could anybody sleep with all that noise?"

Cora jumped at the sound, "Oh you're awake!"

"That, or I'm dead," O'Brien replied hoarsely, "because I don't know how in heaven's name you-" she was interrupted by a fit of mild coughing.

"Shh. We can talk about that later. You rest. I've sent a letter to his Lordship and when it reaches him in a few weeks I'm sure he'll send a telegram about our passage back to England."

The coughing subsided and O'Brien cleared her throat, "Noo,' she rasped, shaking her head on the pillow, "I'm not a lady's maid anymore and I'll not take charity."

"It's not charity. In exchange - when you're well enough - you can act as my tour guide until our ship leaves," Cora proposed to Sarah who lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling above, "and if I may stay here in your room-"

"No you can not!" O'Brien scoffed, "A countess in a room like this? The very idea! I can manage m'self now. You'll have to reserve more suitable accommodations."

Lady Grantham's brow knitted. Her patient was surely just too weary to soften her tone the way she might have with her lady in the past. Yet, Cora could not help but feel a twinge of hurt and embarrassment. "I can't book my own room. I don't have any money. I-," she raised her hand unconsciously to her bruised and cut face, "I was mugged," she said, blushing.

In an instant, O'Brien was up and facing her. The woman had lifted herself to sitting with a speed and strength Cora did not know she still possessed. Sarah searched her face, eyes wide with concern, then she felt Sarah's gentle fingers tracing the healing abrasion on her cheek.

"Who did this?" O'Brien demanded, not unkindly.

Cora chuckled at her former maid's sudden fierceness, "Why? Are you going to track them down and get my jewels back for me?"

"I will kill them."

The intensity with which O'Brien said the words made Cora's smile falter. She had no doubt that if Sarah had the strength she would already be out the door and scouring the streets for the giant and old lady. She was not afraid of O'Brien's intensity. She felt safe. Cora continued gazing into blue eyes and relaxed against the soft fingers on her cheek. Then all at once O'Brien seemed to remember herself. She broke the gaze, withdrawing her hand. Almost imperceptibly, her cheeks colored as she reclined again onto her pillow.

"You should stay here."

* * *

After agreeing to share her room, Sarah had wanted to have Mr. Ramachandra send up a mat for her to sleep on the floor. The room was not really big enough for a folding cot. Lady Grantham would hear no such talk.

"You are in no condition to be sleeping on a cold hard floor."

"Well, you can't continue sitting up all night in that chair and I can't well have the Countess of Grantham sleeping on floor next to my bed like an old dog."

"No, I'm more of a cat," Lady Grantham said wistfully, eyes downcast. She played with the torn seam where Sarah would need to mend her frock. Sarah watched her. The woman was in a funny mood. She was quiet. Considering.

"I don't take up much space," the Countess finally said, "and neither do you… I suppose we could share the bed." She finished speaking but continued looking down at the tear.

Sarah stared at her, heart beating just a little bit faster. Was she still feverish or was it something else? She thought to argue but simply did not have the wherewithal. "Alright," she finally said with a sigh. Her Ladyship did not look up but her lips curled into the faintest smile.

For the first few nights Sarah slept like the dead. She hardly noticed another person was in bed with her she was so exhausted. When she was finally well enough, they began taking walks into the marketplace. Each day they walked a bit further away from the hotel and each night Sarah became more and more aware of the woman sleeping next to her. In that small bed it was impossible for their bodies not to touch. One early pre-dawn morning Sarah woke, at what had once been her usual time, to find the warmth of Lady Grantham's entire body pressed against her back, a long sinewy arm wrapped firmly around her waist. Sarah lay quietly, feeling those delicate fingers pressed against the chemise over her ribs. She ought to gently extricate herself from this predicament. Her Ladyship had simply been unaware of herself in her sleeping state, she'd mistaken Sarah for his Lordship. Yes, to avoid embarrassment for them both, Sarah should slide herself smoothly out of bed and go watch the marketplace open. _But_ \- Lady Grantham's warm breath against her ear, the slow rise and fall of her chest against Sarah's back said she was sleeping peacefully. She would hate to wake the woman. Maybe she would let the Countess sleep just a bit longer. Sarah closed her eyes and soon her own breath grew slow and shallow. By the time she woke again, the mattress behind her was cool, vacant. Lady Grantham was seated in the chair by the window, pulling on her stockings.

Later that afternoon, as their rickshaw rumbled along the road to Chokkanathaswamy Temple, Sarah watched her Ladyship squint and grimace with blanching cheeks. She had forgotten about the Countess' motion sickness. "Only a few more minutes, m'Lady, and we'll be there."

"You know, Sarah," -at some point during her illness Lady Grantham had taken to using her Christian name and continued to do so. Sarah had felt no compunction to object- "You know, Sarah, as you are no longer in my employ and no longer a maid at all, you should really feel free to address me by my Christian name."

"Not likely," Sarah snorted, "I may not be a maid but you're still a countess." She chuckled at the idea. Lady Grantham's brow furrowed and the corners of her mouth turned down into what almost looked like a sulk. Sarah could not be sure the expression was due to the bumpy cobblestone road.

When the rickshaw finally halted in front of the temple, Sarah hopped down and raised her hand to assist the Countess. Taking the hand offered, her Ladyship stepped down onto the road and as the rickshaw pulled away she did not loosen her grip. She walked along the temple grounds with Sarah hand in hand, asking her about the different statues and flowers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Eventually Sarah herself began to feel quite natural. They spent the entire afternoon that way, never losing touch, until the Countess let go to grab the railing in a narrow, crowded stairwell. Sarah's empty hand felt a coldness almost like longing where the other hand had just been resting. She imagined retaking her Ladyship's hand several times after that but with the crowd there was never an opportunity. Or maybe Sarah could not work up the nerve to initiate the contact she wanted more intensely with each passing minute. Intense feelings lead to vulnerability, to weakness, to embarrassment, they were to be suppressed not encouraged. She could not go back to maiding for her Ladyship, could not go back to Downton, best not to become too entangled.

On their fifth night sharing a room, Sarah lay on her side facing her trunk and the window. She gazed out at the stars spread over top of the city. After so many restful nights she was hardly tired at all. She could feel Lady Grantham's arm against her spine. Her Ladyship was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling - if her eyes were open, Sarah couldn't be sure.

"Sarah?"

"Yes, _m'Lady_." Sarah could almost hear Lady Grantham's lips purse at the formal address.

"You've never married," the Countess paused.

"And you're American."

"What?"

"Oh, I thought we were stating obvious facts about one another." Sarah could hear those lips pursing again, the eyes were probably narrowing too.

The Countess sighed and continued, "I was only wondering if it was because you never found the right man."

Sarah rolled her eyes, "Suppose not." What was the silly woman on about?

"- or if it was because you… prefer the company of women."

Sarah made no sound. She swallowed. She could hear Lady Grantham's head on the pillow, turning to face the back of hers.

"It's not something that would upset - or unnerve me…"

Still no sound.

"It's not so unusual. I was very close with some girls before I left America..."

Silence.

"-even kissed a few…"

Silence.

"Did you ever… Sarah?"

Sarah lay frozen, brow knitted in apprehension. Her thoughts raced but she could not speak. She could hardly breath. Finally, she let out a theatrical yawn, "Oh, what was that m'Lady? I'm so sorry I think I nodded off. I get so knackered."

"Yes, yes of course you need your rest. Good night, Sarah."

"Good night, m'Lady," Sarah feigned another yawn and pretended not to hear the disappointment in Lady Grantham's voice. She felt the Countess roll away onto her side. The women were quiet then but neither slept much that night.


	8. Chapter 8

"Bastard!" Cora said through gritted teeth. She gripped the letter, nearly tearing it in half. Two weeks with no word from Robert and they had been wondering if they would hear from him at all. She knew Sarah's money was stretching thin, especially now with two mouths to feed. But Cora had almost dreaded the arrival of the letter, dreaded going back to Downton and the way things were. She had been so content with Sarah here, sharing their room, exploring India together. Now she had the letter, and it was more disappointing than she could have imagined.

He only booked passage for one. After two paragraphs of reproachful scolding and condemnation of her frivolity with their finances, Robert informed her that he refused to waste a single shilling of his money on the likes of O'Brien. His money! _His_ money! It had always been _her_ money. And even now it was little George's money. Damn him! Damn him! She was enraged.

"Well I suppose it's to be expected," Sarah sighed.

Sarah sat beside her on the edge of the bed, reading the letter over her shoulder. Her calmness, her resignation or even nearly imperceptible relief provoked Cora even more.

"I can manage here just fine. You'll have to go on your own."

"No!" Cora stood up from the bed, shaking the letter in exasperation at her bedmate. "Don't you do that! Don't you send me away! I've come too far! You have to come back with me!"

"Why? Because you need a maid to dress your hair and wash your small clothes?" O'Brien spat.

"No, you-" Cora stamped her foot savagely on the floor, "you infuriating cow, because I'm in love with you! You read all my thoughts and yet you're so willfully blind you can't see that!" Cora gasped, astonished at her own confession. She covered her mouth with her hands, staring down at her former maid. O'Brien's jaw hung open. She stared speechless and wide-eyed back at Cora. Finally, Cora collapsed back down onto the edge of the bed. With her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands she began to weep bitterly. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," she sobbed, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

She felt a movement on the mattress and when she pulled her hands from her eyes she saw Sarah kneeling before her. She took Cora's hand in hers and reaching up, she wiped Cora's tears away with her thumb.

"No, m'- _Cora_, there's nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all," Sarah soothed.

Cora leaned her cheek into the gentle hand, "Please don't make me go away."

"Never," she said taking Cora's chin firmly, "Never. We'll get this sorted," Sarah stared down at the bedsheets, pressing Cora's hand, which was folded around her own, to her mouth. Not a kiss, more absentmindedly. She was thinking. Calculating. Cora looked on, acutely aware of the soft lips against her fingers.

Then at last, Sarah looked up at her, eyes gleaming. "We could sell the ticket! The price of first-class passage on the Empress of India would keep us afloat for months! We could even travel. And if we continue to share-," Sarah hesitated, cheeks reddening.

Cora could hardly contain her joy. "You clever woman! I could just- I could kiss you!"

* * *

Sarah's smile faltered. Her heart pounded as she gazed up at Lady Grantham. She had been in love with this woman for going on twenty years. Now she had her and she was frozen. Finally, Sarah lurched up off of her knees and taking Cora's face in her hands she kissed her. It was awkward initially, as first kisses often are, but not for long. They knew one another too well. She ran her fingers through Cora's hair, disheveling everything she had pinned up that morning. Cora's lips were hot and Sarah felt her own temperature rising. Her breath quickened as Cora's tongue flicked against her's. Cora spread her knees apart, pulling Sarah closer and nipping at her bottom lip. A thousand thoughts whirled in Sarah's brain. Her hands grasped at Cora's skirt, she wanted to tear it off, wanted to see all of Cora but she restrained herself. Then Cora, taking the front of Sarah's frock in her fists, leaned back onto the bed, pulling Sarah on top of her. Sarah groaned at the thrust of Cora's hips against hers. With Cora's long leg curled up next to her hip Sarah ran her fingers along the stockings and under the silk underskirt, shoving the skirt up around Cora's waist. Sarah had never felt so hot, she had never wanted any woman as much as she wanted Lady Grantham right now. But this was new for them. She could not be sure how far this mystifying creature lying beneath her would be willing to go.

Afraid of pushing her Ladyship too far, she pulled back briefly from kissing and whispered, "Is this alright?" Cora caressed the sides of Sarah's face with her fingers, pulling her close, pressing their foreheads together, she whispered, "Undress me." Now with confidence, Sarah rushed on. She pressed her lips to Cora's jawline, to her neck, to her collarbone, all while deftly unbuttoning and unclasping stays and pulling down the cotton frock and silk underskirts. Within seconds the Countess was divested of everything but her stockings. Soon those were gone as well.

"You're so quick," she gasped, "I can't even manage to-" Cora was still fumbling with the buttons near Sarah's collar.

"I've had twenty years practice," Sarah said, nibbling the corner of Cora's mouth.

Then Cora pushed her up off the bed and stood naked before her. She traced her lips along Sarah's neck as she slowly, painfully slowly, excruciatingly slowly, worked the buttons at the side of her frock. When Sarah reached up to help, Cora smacked her hand away, "I need to learn." Sarah was impatient but she found other ways to occupy her hands, running her fingers through Cora's hair, cupping her bare breasts, paying attention to the tongue on her collarbone. After several agonizing minutes, Sarah was finally free of her clothes. Cora looked her up and down with a self-satisfied smirk, which Sarah found rather amusing and incredibly sexy, and then she suddenly thrusted Sarah back onto the bed. As the Countess straddled her, knees on either side of her waist, Sarah leaned up wrapping her arms around Cora's back, trailing fingers up her spine, feeling the woman twitch at the lightness of the touch. She kissed Cora's breast, taking a hard nipple into her mouth and sucking. She fondled the other nipple with her thumb. Cora let out a moan between her teeth that made Sarah's heart race. Taking Sarah's free hand in her's she moved it down between her legs, whispering, "Here." Always obedient to her lady, Sarah pressed her fingers to Cora's sex. The walls were already slick. As she worked her fingers, she focused on the rhythm of Cora's body grinding against her hand. She tried not to be too distracted by the heavy breathing, then the sighing, then the moaning, but as Lady Grantham began crying out her name, "oh Sarah," in mewling gasps, Sarah felt her own body quivering. She was making the Countess of Grantham come. The sound of it made Sarah ache for her own release. Finally, Cora's hips convulsed, her fingernails dug into Sarah's shoulder blades, and then she was quiet.

After kissing her deeply between gasps for breath, Cora pushed Sarah back against the pillow. Sarah felt the weight of Cora's entire body pressed against her and the Countess kissed her lips, then her chin, then her jawline, and under her ear, making her eyelids flutter. She felt delicate fingers trace her collarbone down to her breast, pinching her nipple gently, then down past her navel. Sarah groaned and grasped the bedsheets. She was still aching from before. The fingers traced down near her sex and past to her inner thigh. Her thighs tensed and quivered. The fingers traced up to her inner groin, near her sex but not touching. Then they traced slowly, gently away again around to the other thigh. Sarah was losing her mind. As Cora traced her fingers back up near her sex once more, Sarah thrust instinctively but Cora stopped. Was she feeling unsure? Sarah turned her head. Cora gazed at her. There was no uncertainty. One eyebrow was raised mischievously. She was teasing! Sarah looked at her torturer with pleading eyes.

"I want to hear it again," Cora said.

"I- what?" She shook her head, lost, crazed. Her body throbbed. What did the woman want, Sarah would give her anything.

Cora did not answer. She only raised her eyebrow higher and tilted her head, willing Sarah to understand.

And then she did. "Cora!"

With that, Cora's fingers were on her, sending lightening up her spine. Her legs twitched, her back arched up off the mattress. Her toes curled and her fingers clawed the sheets. She continued crying out Cora's name "Cora, Cora, oh God, Cora" until she became utterly incapable of words, devolving into moaning gasps as the waves of her orgasm racked her body.

Afterwards, the two women lay quietly together, content, exhausted. Sarah turned her head, planting a quick kiss on Cora's shoulder, then lifted herself up to sitting on the edge of the bed. She pulled a fag from the box on her trunk. Lighting it and blowing out a puff of smoke, she gazed out their window at the city. She felt movement behind her, then two long legs wrapped around either side of her hips. A warm chest rested against the bare skin of Sarah's back. Cora kissed Sarah's neck and then rested her chin on Sarah's shoulder. She reached for the cigarette between Sarah's fingers and Sarah handed it over raising her eyebrow.

"I took _occasionally_ to smoking Black Cats after you left. The smell was soothing," Cora said. She took a puff and casually exhaled the smoke as if she had been a lifelong smoker, "I see what you mean about the view." She replaced the cigarette between Sarah's lips.

"It is nice, or will be for a few months," Sarah said, leaning back against her lady, "I haven't a clue what we'll do after that."

"Would you consider coming with me to America?"

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth," Sarah said very matter-of-fact, exhaling another fine curl of smoke.

"My mother has sympathetic friends in New York," Cora murmured, nuzzling her lips against the spot under Sarah's ear, "after we've had a bit more time to ourselves, I'll write them." Sarah sighed and her eyes fluttered again.

"How do you feel about racing cars?" Cora asked.

Sarah only raised her brow, tilting her head thoughtfully, and gazed out at the view.

FIN.


End file.
